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Red
Nothing ever ends up poetically,
It ends and we turn it into poetry.
All that blood was never once beautiful,
It was just red.
It was a red that you’d see when your hurt,
When your tired,
Sick and tired of an endless cycle...
It ends and we turn it into poetry.
All that blood was never once beautiful,
It was just red.
It was a red that you’d see when your hurt,
When your tired,
Sick and tired of an endless cycle...
